


Dame aux Camellias

by Aboutnothingness (Thesherlockholmes)



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Ballet realism, Based loosely on the ballet Lady of the Camellias, Canon Death, Gift Fic, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, influenced heavily by the black pas de deux, the Royal Ballet show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:42:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27722981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thesherlockholmes/pseuds/Aboutnothingness
Summary: The dancer is coughing, dragging herself across the stage as the music swells. The man is pleading, begging, holding her limp body so close her skirt bunches, her androgynous, tiny body disappears against his. Passion bare, uncoded—too cold a winter. From reading the bill he knows it to be syphilis, not tuberculosis. Innuendo—lie—consumption.Two men, one story, one dance: a pas de deux of friendship, passion, memory.
Relationships: Dominique Beyrand/Roger Taylor, Freddie Mercury/Roger Taylor
Comments: 21
Kudos: 20
Collections: The Froger Week 2020





	Dame aux Camellias

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nastally](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nastally/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Dawn of Aquarius](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18372263) by [nastally](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nastally/pseuds/nastally). 



> This work is based off of [the Black pas de deux](https://youtu.be/zqbuxMrcOkQ) (begins at 14:30) from the ballet Lady of the Camellias. Nastally suggested the prompt of Freddie performing in the Royal Ballet show... I might have gotten a bit carried away.

_Dance with me again,  
only in feeling and  
theory._

_Movement against plain background in flowing garment fluttering  
Feather white red life falling – _

-

Dominique has dragged him to the ballet. _Lady of The Camellias_ , it’s called. The dramatic tale of love and loss. Elegant in the way nothing else quite is—ethereal, light as air.

The female lead is dancing the final dance, he recalls suddenly the name for that (astonishing, as he was never one for language)— _pas de deux._

A night in Munich, Freddie trying to pass off a Scrabble word as following the rules. He was high. He was talking about anything and everything and then, in the strange way bright memories have of coming up from the grave in a white-induced haze, he begins to talk about years ago. The beginning of—a grand flourish at the crystal and china ornamenting the hotel room around them—all this. His relationship with David, more about that than Roger has ever heard before, about the Day at the Races tour, recalling that night he and Roger got absolutely smashed in some tiny town in the Midwest and tripped about the pub, play-dancing in each other’s arms.

‘Know what that’s really called, darling? In the _professional_ world of dance, I mean?’ A challenging look, a sip of brandy, an amused smirk, ‘Pas de deux!’ Exclaimed with wide, bright eyes and a clap of his hands and then there was that strange bubbling up of emotion Freddie sometimes had, and he had laughed as if there was some grand joke there.

Putting it down to the drugs, Roger had just smiled and told him that the word he’d played still didn’t count.

The dancer is coughing, dragging herself across the stage as the music swells. The man is pleading, begging, holding her limp body so close her skirt bunches, her androgynous, tiny body disappears against his. Passion bare, uncoded—too cold a winter. From reading the bill he knows it to be syphilis, not tuberculosis. Innuendo—lie— _consumption._

Everyone knows the ending, everyone except the characters the unearthly creatures telling the story are playing.

-

 _Bohemian Rhapsody?_ Of all the songs to possibly choose… it puzzles him, why they’ve chosen it. A song—in every respect— _not_ suitable to dance (much less one as elegant as the ballet). _Crazy Little Thing_ is… well, who knows? A song written in an hour. How things can surprise.

He’s thankful now to David for dragging him to the opera house for ballets, for symphonies, for operas, for much needed _culture._ All those things you learn, and everything you quickly forget.

A misstep, a black eye. A long night alone or in tense silence, tears muffled—he wasn't a baby, wouldn't be thought of as that.

But nevermind the memory, those ones, they didn't count. Never did count, forgiven as is his way, in an hour, in a day, in a week, everything always forgiven eventually—even things everyone else says are unforgivable.

The memory is irrelevant.

A book Roger had given him a lifetime ago, who was it about? Nureyev? Baryshnikov? Lost somewhere in all the chaos of the Liverpool days, left behind under a bed, in a drawer, forgotten. He’d never read it but… he wishes he still had it. Knew it was in his possession after all these years, past the naive insanity of youth. Something to remember all that—

The memory is sweet and nearly false. A balance, almost, on the scale of bad and worse. Something to think of...

Well, he’d accepted it, of course. The opportunity to dance with the Royal Ballet of all impossible dreams! But, well, he’s not quite sure what it is he’ll _do._ He can't dance, not in the slightest. Tears across club floors and makes a show during concerts, but that’s not exactly the sort of thing you can do on a serious stage.

The answer comes soon, as soon as the date to go to the rehearsal three weeks before the debut. He thinks, _three weeks for a rehearsal—I’d never make it as a dancer._ Two weeks tops and they are efficient working in the familiarity of years and years, instinctive, almost operating only on reaction. The constant stray thought, reoccurring—are they drifting away, far out of grasp?

He comes early in the morning, far before his call, because this is new and interesting. There is a class in the morning to prepare the dancers, he sits to the side, small and quiet—desperately unobtrusive, feeling anyways out of place—and watches.

The wood floor is hard and the feet make a sweeping sound as they go out and back in, strange positions, around and around— _ronde de jam, cambre, port de bras_ —words he puts to actions quickly enough. And shouted— _turnout, point, feet feet feet!_ The dancers are unfazed in the assault. Sweat drips down their brow, minute by minute layers come off revealing leotards and tights. Women put on hard shoes, and one grabs a watering can and wets the floor. Everyone gulps down water.

The piano music lulls for the first centre exercise, the dancers now splitting into groups. Their legs go into impossible positions, feet by their ears, arms gentle and flowing. They all seem to float, ethereal.

He is in awe.

Men jump and hard breathing fills the room, he feels sweat on his brow—the temperature has increased by five degrees.

Quickly then after dramatic, chorded music, it is over, with applause coming from the dancers. A breaking up for water, for air. Class is over.

The director comes over and he gets to his feet, offers his hand, compliments the dancers. A polite exchange and then swiftly to the business of what he will be doing. He will be learning choreography.

_That will never work._

A thought unvoiced, covered by a nod. The rehearsal starts in fifteen minutes. He suddenly needs a cigarette.

-

The lobby is full, but there are only a few inquiring stares from this stuffy, tuxedoed crowd. Roger is not recognised as the man who originally played the songs. It’s something of a relief. Freddie had told him to meet him by the side door, some small passage used only by the dancers, and Roger is trying his damnedest to find the place. Eventually, he follows a few girls whose arms are laden with bouquets, and as his guides, does find the place Freddie was talking about. The girls are trying desperately to get autographs from, he supposes, the prima ballerina. They look nervous and anxious, bouncing on their toes inches from the door.

It opens, but unfortunately for the girls, it is Freddie who bounds out. His face is made up even more than usual, recalling the early days of eyeliner that covered his entire eyelid and layers of mascara. He is beaming.

“Roger! Darling!”

“Hey Freddie,” he grips Freddie in a half-hug, smiling, “Didn't look half bad out there.”

Freddie smiles, “Think so?”

“Definitely, bit daring with the sparkly leotard though.”

“Well, what am I but daring, dear?” He laughs and starts walking them down the passage, “Honestly can’t believe they worked with me at all—it was awful—oh, you should see what they wanted me to do originally, proper choreography! Well, that was _never_ going to work–”

“Really?” Roger turns to look at him doubly surprised and quizzical, “I’d think that with your stubbornness–”

“No, no, no, dear. You should've seen—well, anyway”, he waves the thought away with his hand, “they settled for me doing my own thing and then tossing me around a bit. Nothing I haven't done before,” He winks mischievously. They’ve reached a side door and Freddie pushes it open, cold air hitting his face. There are a few dancers standing around, leaning on the wall, smoking and talking.

“Bye darlings! Thanks for the fun!” Freddie says with a wave and is met with a chorus of replies, a few coming for hugs, and sweet leaving laughs. Roger can feel how proud the man is of himself. He smiles to himself seeing the scene, hiding it by examining the dark pavement.

“Well, darling,” Freddie’s voice is close now, lower than it was previously. Roger looks up, “Come back to mine? It’s awfully late.”

“Sure, Freddie,” he says, smiling, “But no matter your success tonight, I’ll still beat you at Scrabble.”

A laugh bubbles up from Freddie, “That’s what you think, dear.”

Freddie has plied them both with wine and has settled on the sofa, still and momentarily quiet. Conversation has ceased. Two men, sitting here. He wishes suddenly that old book was set on the table. A memory, something to remind Roger of those early days. Fanciful thoughts. He gets up with his now practised cat-like grace of unfurling himself from knotted sitting positions and slinks to the piano.

Roger glances up at the sound of elegant, rolling notes. He listens, momentarily surprised at hearing Freddie play something that sounds so… formal. Trilling notes, up and down—something he picked up from the ballet in that way of his, being able to play something from one listen?

A ballet from a year ago, he’d loved it. The music played over and over, accompanied by the fractioned memories of balletic movement, impossibly graceful. He’d bought a record of the music, Chopin. Had listened over and over until he could play it exactly. His fingers move precisely, smoothly over the keys—chord rolled, chord staccato. Ultimate romanticism, inspiration all those years ago for that song to David. He’s given that up now, the odes, the secretly dedicated love songs.

 _Or perhaps_ , he thinks suddenly, as Roger settles beside him on the piano bench leaning against the edge of the keyboard, _he just isn't so obvious about it._

He glances up from the keys, continuing the melody. Roger is looking at him with his clear, angelic blue eyes.

“It’s late,” he says, as a means of a hint and a means of avoidance.

“I’m staying over, remember?”

His throat goes dry, his voice lowers unintentionally to a whisper, “The guest room isn't made up.”

 _Well,_ he thinks, _perhaps this works in his favour, nothing to be self-conscious of—it’s not affectation, not really_.

“I’ll be fine on the couch.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, darling. There's always mine.”

“Kip together?” Roger’s eyes haven't left his, “Like the old days?”

“If you like.”

Roger just stares at him, studies him. The piece of music isn't over yet, his hands are still playing, playing from muscle memory and instinct. Somehow, it matches perfectly. The music grows raucous.

“Won't whoever it is you’re with these days, be jealous?”

“Screaming mad, darling,” says Freddie with a smirk, thin fingered hand dropping down from the piano keys, “But he’s a bitch.”

-

Brian has that damn piano now.

All he has is cold metal that Freddie never touched.

-

It was a brilliant idea, really, calling up Roger. Munich had begun to get lonely. A night on the town like any other, but somehow better, as everything becomes better with your best friend.

Roger is a willing participant in any mad idea he has and those it seems increase by the day. He’s held it back a bit, of course, and just suggested his not-quite usual haunt. Usually he’s much more subdued, to be assured, but Roger is always up for fun. And this is rather a novelty for the man.

A leather club where almost no one knows him. That is advantageous for a number of reasons, most of all that he doesn't want Roger knowing all the characters he’s somehow or other interacted with. He knows by now that Roger would only worry.

It seems, though, that Roger really is topping off a day as if it were any other one and as if this were any other club. That may be because he hasn't taken more than an overviewing glance of the scene since they've come in, but Freddie is trying not to think of that. He’s probably gotten this all wrong, Roger is probably miserable.

He’s dancing though, trying to keep up with what Freddie’s doing—new vogue, moving to pulsing beats, now old hat. It’s been rather a while and Freddie feels the tiredness coming on, the weariness he’s been feeling in his bones for months, the feeling he’s warded off with lines of coke and Stoli.

Roger _is_ smiling though, giving this the good natured try he always does. He grabs Freddie's hands and moves them closer, imitating with a difference of mere inches, what everyone else around here is doing. He’s smiling and Freddie smiles right back.

They move ill-advisedly into the middle of the floor, now pressed close by the others. Roger is chuckling, which inevitably makes him chuckle. The lovely way happiness and childish glee is contagious. It’s unfortunate though, because on the quick change of a beat, the chuckle turns into a cough.

It’s rough and rattling, and he presses away from Roger, bumps into a couple of people who are too close, makes a mess of the organisation of close-knit couples. He pushes through the throng, feeling someone’s hand—must be Roger’s—grasp his shoulder.

His chest aches with the after-shocks of the fit, the air is stale.

“You okay, Freddie?”

“Yes, yes. Just–” a cough, and then another, “too many cigarettes.”

“Maybe a cold?” Roger reasonably suggests.

“No, no, never get them. Doesn't feel like that, anyways.”

“Better get going then, come on.”

He’s reminded of how Phoebe is so insistent sometimes, using nearly the same tone Roger is now. Something learned, perhaps, after years of dealing with him?

Roger has him bundled up in bed soon enough, leather outfit shed and hot tea downed. The man kicks off his shoes and gets in himself. He’s been relatively quiet since they got back to the flat Freddie’s inhabiting—Winnie’s, but he’s hardly here weeknights—saying only that ‘of course you’re run down’ and ‘absolute bloody idiot’, part scolding, part tenderly warm.

Now, he’s besides him, warm and solid, turned away. Roger snuffles and then exhales, hard and loud.

“Freddie? You _are_ looking out for yourself, aren't you?” His voice is tight. He sounds so worried, so pent up with stress, that Freddie wonders how to put him at ease. Roger shouldn't have to worry so. He should never have worried at all.

“Of course I am, dear. Don't listen to all those nasty reporters.”

Half joke, half truth—always the way.

He brings his hand up and rests it on Roger’s shoulder. It should be enough, that small gesture, after all these years. But somehow, it doesn't seem like it is.

Freddie’s heart aches as it does on cold, dark nights. Nights when he’s alone. Or, if not alone, holed up somewhere on his own in respite, when night glints silver and glass-sharp worries hang over him. Nights when he can't look into a shadowy, all telling mirror. His throat feels raw and he winces remembering the tang of blood.

Roger’s arm bends and his hand grasps Freddie’s, bringing it down from his shoulder onto the sheets, entangling their fingers without so much as a glance. Freddie doesn't dare move the rest of the night.

-

They wait for the crowd to thin before moving from their seats. He puts Dominique into her coat, slipping his on after.

He knows better than to look when he hears in his ear, “Thank goodness you’re not wearing black, darling.”


End file.
